She crossed over the first bisecting avenue to the westward, and the second; she passed a few pedestrians, among them being a policeman trying door latches, a drunken man whose body swayed and whose legs wove queer patterns as he walked, and half a dozen pale, bearded men who spoke Yiddish and gestured volubly with their hands as they went by in a group. At Third Avenue she turned north, finding the pavements more thickly populated, and just after she came to where Fourteenth Street crosses she saw a heavily built, well-dressed man in a light overcoat, coming toward her at a deliberative, dawdling gait. She put herself directly in his path. He checked his pace to avoid a collision and looked at her speculatively, with one hand fingering his moustache. "Will you go with me?" she said, repeating the invitation she had used before. "Where to?" he said, showing interest. "Where you please," she said in her halting speech. "You're on," he said. He fell in alongside her, facing her about and slipping a hand well inside the crook of her right arm. "You--you will go with me?" she asked. Suddenly her body was in a tremble. "No, sister," he stated grimly, "I ain't goin' with you but you're sure goin' with me." And as he said it he tightened his grip upon her forearm. He had need to say no more. She knew what had happened. She had not spent two years and better in a New York tenement without learning that there were men of the police--detectives they called them in English--who wore no uniforms but went about their work apparelled as ordinary citizens. She was arrested, that was plain enough, and she understood full well for what she had been arrested. She made no outcry, offered no defence, broke forth into no plea for release. Indeed her thought for the moment was all for her half-sister and not for herself. So she said nothing as he steered her swiftly along. At a street light where a patrol telephone box of iron was bolted to the iron post the plain-clothes man slowed up. Then he changed his mind. "Guess I won't call the wagon," he said. "I happen to know it's out. It ain't far. You and me'll walk and take the air." He turned with her westward through the cross street. Then, struck by her silence, he asked a question: "A Frenchy, ain't you?" "Yes," she told him. "I am French. Where--where are you taking me, m'sieur? Is it to the prison--the station house?" "Quit your kiddin'," he said mockingly. "I s'pose you don't know where we're headin'? Night court for yours--Jefferson Market. Right over here across town." "They will not keep me there long? They will permit me to go if I pay a fine, eh? A small fine, eh? That is all they will do to me, is it not so?" He grunted derisively. "Playin' ignorant, huh? I s'pose you're goin' to tell me now you ain't never been up in the night court before?" "No, no, m'sieur, never--I swear it to you. Never have I been--been like this before."